Mine
by Sara Dobie Bauer
Summary: Having only lived in 221B for a month, John Watson is still learning the ways of his bizarre yet entrancing flat mate. However, one night, when he finds Sherlock Holmes being kissed by a married man, John realizes he doesn't want to share his brilliant consulting detective with anyone.
1. Chapter 1

After a walk through the chilly, London night, Dr. John Watson got home late from the clinic and found 221B … empty. Having lived there for a month, he'd grown accustomed to finding his moody flat mate sprawled on the couch, moping. Not only accustomed, John realized, but fond.

Where was Sherlock?

Avoiding a moldy set of human ears, John found some leftover Chinese in the fridge. He took a few half-hearted bites, but the sound of his chewing seemed oppressive in the silence of their flat. That's how he thought of 221B, as _theirs_. He put the food away and opted for tea instead.

He stood in their dirty kitchen and noticed it smelled vaguely of formaldehyde, while he waited for the kettle to boil. Once it did, he poured steaming water into his Army mug. John was relieved to hear the front door open. Ever since coming back from Afghanistan, he didn't care much for being alone.

He said his name softly: "Sherlock?"

When there was no response, John stepped around the corner from the kitchen to the living room and froze. Sherlock was indeed home, but he wasn't alone. In fact, he was pressed up against the closed front door being snogged senseless by someone in a long trench coat with gray hair.

Sherlock's head leaned back when the gray-haired man moved to his throat and starting mumbling words … "Bloody brilliant … Idiot … Rude, impertinent ass …" John recognized the voice: Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

They'd met a few times at crime scenes, and he seemed an intelligent, patient, polite man who was quite fond of Sherlock. More than once, John had caught Lestrade shaking his head in admiration of Sherlock's intellect. Now, it appeared Lestrade admired more than that.

Still unaware of John's silent, shocked presence, Lestrade pushed Sherlock's expensive coat from his shoulders and returned his attentions to Sherlock's mouth. John almost dropped his teacup when Sherlock moaned: a deep, echoing sound that should have been illegal in its glorious obscenity.

John cleared his throat suddenly, and Lestrade leapt away from Sherlock's body as if he stood in a fire pit. "Dr. Watson," he said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. His wedding ring reflected light from a nearby lamp.

John shook his head. "I'm sorry. I was just …" He almost tripped in his rush to get out of the room.

"John." Sherlock's voice—forceful, strong—stopped him.

"I'll just …" Lestrade ran his hands through his hair, cast one quick glance at Sherlock, and stepped toward the door. "Night then." His feet sounded heavy as he descended the front steps back to Baker Street.

John watched Sherlock take off his coat the rest of the way and hang it on the hook by the front door. His thick, black curls were a wreck, which he didn't seem to notice. He pulled on the cuffs of his shirt before looking up at John. "Ah. Tea." He took John's steaming mug, the bastard, and sat in his chair.

John put his hands on his hips and tapped his foot before turning around. "Married to your work?"

Sherlock sipped silently.

"Speaking of married, Lestrade is. Married, I mean. You obviously _observed_ his wedding band."

"Societal construct," Sherlock said, deadpan.

"Societal …" John shook his head. "Don't you respect the institution at all?"

"I—" Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, a little red around the edges, presumably from Lestrade's whiskers. "I'm supposed to say 'yes,' correct?"

John slumped down into his own chair and took a long, slow breath through his nose. He didn't know when it had arrived, but rage had come for a visit. John was angry. He was very, very angry indeed.

Sherlock set the teacup down on the table by his side. "You're angry."

"Very observant," John muttered.

"Because I've had a four-year affair with a married man."

"Four …" John's eyes popped open. " _Four years_?"

"Not an affair really." Sherlock folded one ankle over his knee. "Occasional harried grabs in back alleys after an invigorating chase, that sort of thing. Sometimes we even make it to a bed."

"Jesus!" John shouted.

"If it's so offensive to your morality, we won't come back to Baker Street again."

John shook his head. He shook his head some more.

Then, Sherlock did the very thing John dreaded—the thing he did to clients and criminals alike. He shifted forward in his chair, rested his elbows on his bony knees, and folded his hands under his nose. "I'm mistaken."

John rolled his eyes. "Can I get that on tape?"

Sherlock tilted his head, one beautiful green-gray eye squinting. "You're not upset because Lestrade is married, not really. Why are you upset?

"Never mind." He stood.

John heard the scrape of suit fabric over leather and knew he was being pursued. Before John could reach the door that led upstairs to his bedroom, Sherlock was in front of him, thin arm across the entrance. He peered down at John with furrowed brow.

John put his hands on his hips and looked anywhere but at the consulting detective extraordinaire.

" _Why_ are you upset?"

"This." John gestured between the two of them as best he could with Sherlock hovering six inches away. "This is invasion of personal space. We've talked about this before."

Sherlock moved back. A little. But not so much that John couldn't smell his cologne—a scent John, in the span of weeks, already associated with home.

"Sherlock. I'm tired."

"You're angry."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You're irate. Why?" Sherlock moved closer again, so much so that John could actually see the tiny freckles on his flat mate's nose.

The proximity was too much as John's stomach rolled to a boil. "Because you're …"

 _Mine._

God, where had that come from? John covered his mouth as if he'd said the word out loud.

 _Mine._

 _You're mine, Sherlock._

It would be a lie for John to deny he was desperately in love with his flat mate and had been, possibly, since their first cab ride together. He hadn't felt such a visceral pull toward another man since high school, when his hormones had been wild as a bag full of cats, and he'd done some experimenting. He'd been pretty much fixed on women since, but Sherlock Holmes …

Sherlock Holmes did things to him.

It wasn't just the way he looked, blinding in his masculine splendor. It wasn't the confidence or the way he walked with such purpose or even his bloody gorgeous voice. It was the way Sherlock made him feel safe. Ironic, since they spent so much time chasing baddies down dark alleys, that Sherlock would make John feel so very protected.

Sherlock made John feel like he had a future. He had a companion. They had 221B, and every night, John loved coming home to his … _friend?_ Was that all Sherlock was?

"John."

He looked up to find the detective studying him. "You're …" John stared down at his feet. "Don't destroy a man's marriage."

One of Sherlock's dark eyebrows tilted up in the middle. "That's really more Lestrade's decision than mine." He spun away on his heel and fell gracefully back into his leather chair, returning to John's pilfered tea.

"I need to sleep," John said.

Sherlock didn't respond, and John glanced back to find his friend's eyes glazed over, already deep in his Mind Palace.

John felt hefty walking up the steps, as if he'd put on twenty pounds in the last five minutes. Emotionally, perhaps he had.

 _(You're mine.)_

But Sherlock wasn't his. At least, not yet.


	2. Chapter 2

The next night, John stood at the edge of a crime scene, watching Sherlock swoop and dive in his Belstaff like a bird in flight, circling carrion. That's what this body was: rotten. It'd been there for days before anyone reported something amiss, probably because people didn't generally spend time down dark alleys …

Except for Sherlock Holmes and DI Lestrade, apparently.

John rolled his eyes at his own immaturity. What right did he have to be so angry? He'd known Sherlock for little over a month. There had been no sexual contact. The one time John had actually had the balls to make an awkward pass at Angelo's, he'd been shrugged off immediately.

Yet, there was still that lingering thought as he caught a glimpse of Sherlock's pale cheekbones and long throat.

 _Mine._

He couldn't expect … He didn't deserve … No, he was being an idiot.

Lestrade, meanwhile, smoked a cigarette and looked nervous. His eyes would flit between Sherlock and John but never linger. John almost felt bad for the guy—almost—although he was a bit put off by the idea of the detective inspector cheating on his wife with a self-proclaimed male sociopath.

Then again, Sherlock was the kind of man men had affairs with: young, brilliant, and disturbingly charismatic. He could have seduced the Pope.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock shouted.

The DI tossed his cigarette and rushed to the consulting detective's side. Sherlock spoke quietly in a rush of words. His mouth moved so fast, it was amazing he didn't trip over his own tongue. John blinked when that very tongue poked out and nudged at Sherlock's top lip—an unconscious tic of the detective's that John had noticed before and found very distracting.

John's hands curled into fists when Lestrade put his hand on Sherlock's lower back as they continued talking. How had John never seen it before, the way they were so comfortable together physically? He clenched his jaw, again reminding himself he had no right to be jealous. Lestrade had been at Sherlock's side for four years.

And, apparently, in his bed.

"John!"

John's head popped up to find Sherlock barreling toward him, all strut and smirk. "Solved. Home."

John followed close behind. "Sometimes I feel like your trusty bloodhound, standing around looking vacant."

Sherlock's brow furrowed.

John hadn't meant that to come out quite so scathing.

They climbed into a cab and rode back to 221B. Before John could even climb to the top of the steps, Sherlock was already out of his coat and headed for his bedroom. He returned seconds later, like Superman, fully dressed in pajama pants, a raggedy t-shirt, and a fancy, blue dressing gown. He fell onto the couch and rested his feet over the arm.

John sighed. "Tea?"

"Mm."

John went to the kitchen.

"You're still angry."

John slammed the kettle down on the stove and turned on the gas. He rested a hand on his hip and waited for water to boil.

"Seeing Lestrade made you angry."

"Sherlock. It doesn't matter."

"I would tend to agree if not for concern over the state of our stove."

John scoffed. "You _never_ use the stove."

"But you do. To make tea. I'd rather it stay in one piece."

John shook his head but smiled, despite himself.

"Whatever continues to chew on that little brain of yours, out with it. Your anger is filling the flat like the scent of burnt toast."

John stepped back into the sitting room. "Are you happy? With him?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, his long-fingered hands resting across his chest.

"I mean, what you have together: does it make you happy?"

"Really, John, it's merely transport."

"Sex. What does sex have to do with transport?"

Sherlock leaned up on one elbow and gestured with his right hand. "My _body_ is merely transport. It's the brain that matters. The mind. Sex is unfortunately a necessary part of the bodily process, so if my baser needs are fulfilled, my brain operates on a higher level."

"I thought you weren't even interested in sex. At Angelo's—"

"Angelo's." Sherlock sighed and fell back into the comfort of couch. "I should have known."

" _Known?"_ The teakettle screamed. John removed it from the heat but certainly did not make tea. He stood in the center of the sitting room, arms crossed. "Known what?"

Sherlock let out another longsuffering sigh. "It is true, I do not have a girlfriend, because I am not attracted to women. I don't have a boyfriend because Lestrade is a married man, and I've never let it go any further than bodily contact. When you made a pass at—"

John held up one finger. "I wasn't making a pass."

Sherlock shoved himself to sitting and glared up at John from beneath his dark brows.

John rubbed his eyes. "So I was making a pass, but you made it perfectly clear—"

"That I was married to my work. Which I am."

"Then, Lestrade …"

"We have … history."

Just was John was about to open his mouth, Sherlock turned away and curled into a ball on the couch. He groaned and actually covered his ears like a five-year-old.

John returned to the kitchen and did make tea. He made two cups, cream and two sugars for Sherlock. He set the mug on the table behind his flat mate and sat down across the room in his chair. He fully expected to spend the remainder of the evening in silence, although perhaps a bit tenser than their usual companionable solitude.

Then, Sherlock shifted a bit on the couch but not enough for John to see his face. "You asked me if I'm happy with Lestrade. I'm happy here." He sounded like he spoke into a pillow. "I'm happy with you."

John smiled into his tea.

* * *

When John turned the corner, his heart pounding, he could barely make out the bodies tussling before him. He and Sherlock had been chasing a suspected murderer for three blocks, and Sherlock—damn his long legs—had gotten a little ahead of his army doctor. Now, the detective was in the midst of a brawl.

John dove into the two men as if diving into a swimming pool. Based on the scent of cologne, Sherlock went down to his left; their supposed killer fell with an "oof" to his right. John was on the man like a tiger, kneeing him in the stomach before rolling him over and pinning his arms.

Sherlock was there to help in seconds, handing off a pair of handcuffs, which John was only so happy to use as their suspect continued to kick and struggle beneath him until he struggled a bit too hard, smacked his head on the pavement, and knocked himself out cold.

Sherlock's deep chuckle echoed in the darkness. "Well done, John."

John stood, huffing for breath. He leaned his back against the nearest wall and giggled as he so often did when filled to the brim with adrenaline, Sherlock's familiar scent in his nose. "How did you know?"

Sherlock's hand gestured to their unconscious suspect. "The stain on his jeans."

"Brilliant." John chuckled.

He didn't see Sherlock move closer, but then, there he was, six inches away, invading John's personal space as usual. John stood up straight, but he couldn't make out Sherlock's expression in the darkness. He was nothing but a tall shadow. John heard the slide of leather—Sherlock taking off one of his gloves. Then, the consulting detective's warm hand was on John's cheek, tilting his chin up.

"Sher—"

He pressed one gentle kiss to John's mouth and backed away as if gauging the doctor's reaction.

John took hold of the lapel of Sherlock's coat and pulled him in for another kiss, longer this time, mouths just barely open. Sherlock's lips were full and soft, high maintenance man that he was. John's hand moved from the coat lapel to the back of Sherlock's neck, fingers tangling in black curls. Their mouths opened more with some tentative tongue before Sherlock pulled back and rested his forehead on John's.

Neither of them spoke, standing in a dank alley, breathing each other's breath.

Then, the sound of running feet: New Scotland Yard finally on their heels. Sherlock stepped away as Lestrade turned the corner, flashlight in hand. He pointed the light on the unmoving suspect, but John could see they'd been caught. He could see it in the way Lestrade's eyes widened, softened, and then, looked away.


	3. Chapter 3

He had Sherlock pinned beneath him on the couch at Baker Street. He had to let that thought run through his head one more time: _John Watson, you have Sherlock bloody Holmes pinned beneath you on the sofa._

They'd just returned home from a case in which Sherlock had been, as always, brilliant, and Sherlock had started the kissing on the landing outside their front door. It was John who'd tugged off Sherlock's Belstaff and then shoved him unceremoniously onto the only nearby piece of furniture that would fit both their bodies—barely.

John covered Sherlock's mouth in kisses until he earned a blood-boiling moan from his flat mate. "God, Sherlock …" he muttered and continued kissing down the other man's throat.

John's libido always spiked when Sherlock was brilliant at crime scenes, but it didn't help that Sherlock was in some all-black, super expensive suit that made his skin practically glow. It further didn't help that Sherlock seemed so willing, hungry even, to lick the inside of John's mouth and run his long fingers through John's short hair.

"You're amazing," John panted. "Intelligent. Gorgeous."

Sherlock flipped John over, which made them fall off the couch. John landed rather harshly on his back with six feet of consulting detective on top of him, kissing his neck.

"Ow." John winced at the way his spine now ached, but Sherlock didn't stop kissing, sucking, even biting at John's collarbone. John put his hands in Sherlock's thick, black hair and tugged ever so gently, which made his flat mate growl. John's head hit the floor. "The noises you make …"

Sherlock moved further down John's body, knees on either side of his hips. He shoved John's jumper up and kissed the base of his ribs, his stomach, his hipbone—which made John buck up off the floor.

"I don't want you kissing anyone else," John stuttered.

Sherlock stopped moving and looked up at John. "Why?" His brow was furrowed in obvious confusion.

"Because I want …" _I want you to be mine, Sherlock. Please._

John's extended silence apparently annoyed Sherlock, who huffed and unbuttoned John's pants. "You should probably stop talking now, John."

"Wh—oh …"

Following the most amazing blowjob of John's life—possibly the most amazing blowjob in human history—the two men sat side-by-side on the floor, leaned against the couch. Most of John's upper body rested against Sherlock, who had his arm around him, one long-fingered, musician's hand in his hair.

Occasionally, Sherlock leaned forward to kiss the side of John's temple.

John lifted one of Sherlock's hands from his thigh and kissed between knuckles. "You have the most gorgeous hands, you know that? Probably from all those years of playing violin."

"Lestrade says the same."

Sherlock kept playing with John's hair, but John froze. "How did it start between you two?" he asked.

"Do you honestly want to know?" Sherlock's annoyed voice vibrated through John's chest.

John shrugged, even though the jealous, angry side of him said, _Yes. Obviously._ John knew Sherlock's slim, black suit hadn't gone unnoticed at the crime scene earlier—not by John and not by Lestrade. Not by a couple of the officers on duty or bystanders, for that matter. It was hard to miss Sherlock in that damn black suit.

Sherlock sighed. "He arrested me for drug possession five years ago. I told him how his wife was cheating on him with her boss, which he denied. Threw me in the cells for the night. Came back in the morning and told me I was right, wanted to know how. With his help, I got clean, and things _progressed_. Lestrade has always been bisexual, and my mind apparently caught his interest."

John snorted. "It wasn't your mind, Sherlock."

"Sex was a reward for my brilliance. That's what it's always been. With Professors. Drug dealers." He paused. "Detective Inspectors."

John leaned forward and tried to hide the horror on his face. "You slept with drug dealers?"

Sherlock smirked, which grew into a mischievous smile. "John, really."

John scooted away on the floor so he could see Sherlock straight on. "Sherlock, it's not …" He shook his head. "First of all, you're getting tested before we have sex."

Sherlock rolled his eyes like the most put-upon person on Earth.

"Secondly, sex isn't a reward. It's …" John felt like his tongue had suddenly expanded exponentially in his mouth. "It's a connection shared between two people who care about each other."

"I suppose you'd like me to believe you've never had a one night stand, Dr. Watson."

John pursed his lips together to quell the heat that rose in his stomach when Sherlock called him "Dr. Watson" in that playful tone. "Of course I've had a one night stand, but … I don't want to have sex with you just because you're brilliant at crime scenes. I want to have sex with you because you're you."

Sherlock lowered his brows. "Arrogant, self-centered, and ridiculous."

John shook his head. "Yes. No. You're more than those things. You make me feel accepted. You make me feel safe."

"You've almost been shot three times since we've met, stabbed twice."

"For someone so intelligent, you can be quite thick."

Sherlock lowered his brows even more.

"I understand fighting crime is not the safest hobby for either of us, but after catching the bad guys, when we come back here—to 221B—it's like I'm home for the first time in my bloody life. And it's only home because you're here, and here, it's just you and me and a fire and tea, and we're safe. I'm safe. You're safe." John didn't want to mention Lestrade, but … "Seeing the way Lestrade looks at you, I don't think he kisses you at the end of cases as a reward, Sherlock. I think it's the same way I feel: he kisses you because you're still alive, and he can't imagine a world without you." John's voice shook, so he cleared his throat.

Sherlock didn't respond, but he did look like he was working out a particularly difficult math equation.

John fell back on his heels, further away from the consulting detective. "I'll be honest, Sherlock, I want you to be mine. Over the past month, my mind has practically replaced your name with that word: _mine_ —which isn't fair, because you've known Lestrade much longer than you've known me. If you prefer him …" John had trouble swallowing. "If you prefer him, that's fine, Sherlock. But I need you to choose: him or me. If you choose me, I won't share. I can't share."

"John—"

"Not now." John stood. "Think about it. Take some time, all right? Tea?"

John put the kettle on, the taste of Sherlock's lips on his tongue—the memory of Sherlock's tongue in his mind. He could still feel his flat mate's hair between his fingers as he pulled down two coffee mugs, ghosts of sensation. He thought he might die if he never got to touch Sherlock again, never peel him out of his damn, expensive suits and see more than just his pale hands and neck.

It wasn't John's decision anymore. He'd made his intentions quite clear. It was all up to Sherlock, who, John noticed, hadn't moved from the floor. His bright eyes stared straight ahead toward their darkened chairs, fireplace bare. He was still like that when John went upstairs to bed alone.


	4. Chapter 4

When John came downstairs the next morning, he was actually surprised Sherlock was not still sitting on the floor, back leaned against the couch, deep in his Mind Palace. The tea John had made remained untouched on the coffee table.

John turned the corner into the kitchen and noticed Sherlock's bedroom door was open. "Sherlock?"

No response.

In his slippers and robe, he wandered down the hall to the sound of silence. Sherlock's bedroom was empty, bed made. When John walked back to the sitting room, he noticed his flat mate's Belstaff was gone.

Sherlock was gone.

John felt as though his heart had taken up residence in the base of his stomach. It didn't take a sociopathic genius to guess where Sherlock had headed: to see Lestrade. Perhaps he'd made up his mind. Perhaps John had not made the cut. He fell into his chair and stared at light streaming through the window, bits of dust floating like ashy remnants of a house fire.

Then, downstairs, John heard the front door to Baker Street swing open. Heavy feet stomped up—not Sherlock; Sherlock moved like some sort of elegant panther up steps. The door to 221B swung open, and a disheveled Lestrade stood there, huffing for breath.

His brown eyes scanned the room until they rested on John, and he stood up straight and looked nervous. "Dr. Watson."

John stood up straight, too, but they didn't stare at each other like fighters sizing up an opponent. It was more like an awkward dance of the eyes as if neither man wanted to spend too much time appraising the other—wondering what Sherlock saw in him.

"Is Sherlock …" Lestrade gestured around the flat with his hand.

"I thought he was with you," John said.

Lestrade yanked at his tie, trench coat askew. "No. I need help on a case, and he's not answering his bloody phone."

Well, John knew that was highly out of character for the consulting detective.

Lestrade tilted his head and looked up at John from below his brows. Then, he sat on the couch and put his hands in his gray hair.

 _Oh_ , John thought, _so we're having a conversation_. He opened with the only thing he thought appropriate: "Do you love him?"

"Bloody hell," Lestrade muttered. He rubbed his forehead like his head suddenly hurt. He sighed. He sniffed. He looked toward the windows.

"It's all right if you do."

"Is it?" Lestrade said.

John felt like an idiot, standing there in his ratty robe, trying to have a serious chat with the very man whose existence could possibly destroy his only chance at happiness. "Sherlock says … your wife, she's unfaithful?"

Lestrade held his hands up as if about to be shot. "Well, we both are, aren't we?" His shoulders slumped. "First time I saw him, know what I thought?"

John could imagine several things.

"Who even _has_ cheekbones like that? And how does a man that thin have such a plush arse?"

John snorted—couldn't help himself—which at least made Lestrade look up, his eyes a bit lighter. John sat down in his chair. "Yeah, I think I had a similar first impression."

"He can be an absolute git sometimes, right? Arrogant sod." Lestrade shook his head. "You think he has no concern for anyone but himself, but you just know he would jump in front of a bullet for you. He's ... Do you love him, John?"

So they were past formalities, past playing games. He said, "If I don't, I'm dangerously close."

Lestrade nodded. "He doesn't look at me the way he looks at you. Sure, he's all hands and passion when he's in the right mood, but he doesn't watch me—study me—like he studies you."

John leaned forward in his seat. "Sherlock studies _me_?"

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed. The whole squad has."

"Sherlock says I see but don't observe."

"Well, he might be right, mate." Lestrade wrung his fingers. "I saw you two. In the alley. It's all right if … I understand if you …" He stood and tugged a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I don't even know what I'm bloody saying."

"It's Sherlock's decision," John said.

"What is?"

"I don't share." He may have gone a bit heavy on the Captain John Watson voice, but he wanted Lestrade to understand. John wasn't trying to take Sherlock away from him, but he wanted Sherlock to be his and no one else's. It was Sherlock's call.

Lestrade seemed to understand all this, because he let out a long, slow breath, interrupted only by the sound of the door opening downstairs. The two men glanced at each other over the sound of Sherlock's lithe feet climbing the steps to 221B. Of course, their silent standoff immediately ended when Sherlock crossed the threshold covered in blood.

Lestrade and John started shouting.

"Jesus!"

"What in God's name!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the haughty image was destroyed when he slumped sideways, and John caught him with a hand around his waist.

"Sherlock …" Lestrade's hands were on either side of Sherlock's face, studying his bright blue eyes, which was when John noticed the source of the blood: a deep cut near the consulting detective's hairline.

John led both his flat mate and Lestrade—who clung to Sherlock's shoulder and kept cussing—to Sherlock's chair before rushing off for the first aid kit. When he came back, Lestrade knelt in front of Sherlock, one hand on his chin, staring up at the injured crime fighter like he was giving off heavenly light. They were speaking softly to each other until Lestrade stood up and shouted, "You broke into my office?"

"Clearly," Sherlock said as John started wiping blood from his face to get a better look at the injury that was losing an alarming amount of blood. "I needed a case."

"Sherlock, I was on my way here to give you that exact case."

"I needed it sooner. And I solved it. You're welcome."

"You can't just break into my office!"

Blood staunched, John finally got a look at an impressive gash. "Sherlock, what happened?"

"My head hit a table," he responded as if that should be obvious.

John sighed and started disinfecting the wound. "You probably have a concussion."

"I'll give him a concussion," Lestrade said, hands on his hips. "Running off by yourself. Sherlock, I have begged you not to do that."

John assumed he was the only one in the room who heard the desperate tenderness in the DI's voice. He pressed gauze to Sherlock's head, and he didn't even wince. His left eye did wrinkle a bit, but that was because he seemed to be focused intently on the man yelling at him.

"Lestrade, why are you spinning?" he said. Sherlock then threw up on the floor.

Concussion diagnosis apparently confirmed, Lestrade helped John carry Sherlock to his bed. They stood above a moaning consulting detective for a moment before looking at each other.

"You should—" They said at the same time.

Yes, John was the doctor, but Lestrade had been Sherlock's lover for four years. If anyone deserved to crawl into that bed and take care of the bleeding idiot, it was Lestrade, right? Apparently, though, Lestrade had different inclinations—possibly due to John's medical training but possibly not.

They stood there, frozen, until one word fell from Sherlock's lips …

"John?"

He rested a knee on the edge of Sherlock's bed and reached for his hand. "I'm here."

"John," Sherlock sighed, eyes closed tight.

John looked up at Lestrade. The DI nodded once and tried to hide the heartbroken expression on his handsome face with a close-lipped smile. "I'll break it off with him. Just make sure he's all right, yeah?"

"Always," John said as Lestrade cast one last look at Sherlock and left the room.


	5. Chapter 5

John rested in Sherlock's bed with his back against the headboard. Sherlock's shaggy head was in his lap, arms wrapped around John's waist. They'd been like that for hours, John running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, Sherlock occasionally muttering nonsense.

Then, his voice, gravelly, broke the silence: "How long have I been asleep?"

John grabbed Sherlock's arm and looked at his watch. "Three hours." The bandage on Sherlock's forehead was still white, so at least the wound had stopped bleeding. "Does your head hurt? Do you feel sick?"

Sherlock burrowed his face deeper into John's stomach. "Lestrade was yelling."

"Well, you broke into his office."

Sherlock made a disgruntled noise. "I couldn't sleep."

"Not really an excuse for breaking and entering."

"Is he gone?"

John ran his hand across Sherlock's back. "Yes."

"Did he … Did I say something I shouldn't have?"

John thought back to the moment, hours before, when Sherlock had subconsciously made his choice—Lestrade or John—by calling out John's name in his time of need. A bit of a smile made its way to John's face. "No, not really. You said what you wanted."

"You."

That single word made John's chest cavity feel much too small, as if his heart had just doubled in size. He bit his lip to keep the unwanted whimper in his mouth.

Without preamble, Sherlock sat up and straddled John's waist. He put his hands on the headboard, trapping John beneath him and stared. John noticed Sherlock's eyes weren't fuzzy. He wasn't in any kind of discomfort. He stared at John as he had many times before, as though studying him, although he'd never stared like that _in bed_.

John had trouble breathing.

Just as Sherlock leaned forward, though, he stopped. "I should brush my teeth." He climbed away, and John almost shouted, _Sod it,_ before Sherlock cut him off. "Please consider having on less clothes when I get back."

"Oh," John said.

While water ran in the bathroom, John took off his ratty robe and slippers. He took off his t-shirt and pajama pants. He stood, nervous, in nothing but black boxer briefs and considered maybe putting his t-shirt back on. But, no, he wanted to feel Sherlock's skin against his. Still, this was _a moment_ —John thought possibly the biggest moment in his life as the man of his dreams had seconds before told him to take off his clothes.

John thought about what sex would be like with the great Sherlock Holmes, but when some choice images came to mind, he made himself stop and sit down. He felt like he was fifteen again, a victim of his hormones, so he buried his head in his hands and took a few calming breaths.

Then, the bathroom door opened, and Sherlock came walking back in, completely nude.

"Fucking hell," John said.

He was everything John would have expected, based on the incredibly tight clothes he wore—except the scars. Although John shouldn't have been surprised by the white lines, small puckered circles of once destroyed flesh, he _was_ surprised, probably because he thought Sherlock would be perfect: a long plane of flawless, alabaster skin. But he was a man of violence and action, and it would be unrealistic to think he'd never been caught off guard.

John's surprise quickly turned to admiration. He stood and ran his thumb along a battle scar just above Sherlock's right hip. "You're perfect."

A wrinkle appeared between Sherlock's brows. "Why are you still wearing pants?"

John laughed at the indignation on his flat mate's face and then pulled off his last item of clothing. They stood, facing each other, laid bare.

They weren't standing for long as Sherlock tossed John onto the bed. Thin as he looked, John often forgot how strong Sherlock was, really just one big muscle. Then, Sherlock was on top of him, kissing his face and throat, rutting until John saw stars.

"Sherlock, if you don't … Ah …" John's body bucked upwards when Sherlock bit his earlobe. "If you don't slow down, this could be over much too quickly."

"First time …" He spoke between kisses. "Will be fast. … I need … you. We'll slow down later." He leaned across John and reached for the bedside stand, from which he pulled a half-full bottle of lube. Sherlock put some on his hand and reached back, started fingering himself.

John watched and muttered, "You're trying to kill me."

"God no, John. I'm trying to fuck you."

"And why should your hands have all the fun?" John flipped Sherlock onto his back, earning him a surprised grin. John leaned down and kissed the consulting detective until he pulled back to find Sherlock's pale skin flushed, his bright eyes practically luminescent.

John found the lube and continued what Sherlock had already started, but soon, he was ready. John could hardly stand waiting a second longer before making Sherlock his.

 _Mine. My Sherlock Holmes._

Yet, John was no fool. "Condoms?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. How a man could look so arrogant, thighs spread apart, writhing on John's fingers, John would never know.

"Sherlock." John pulled his fingers away, which made Sherlock frown and point to the bedside stand. "You are such a gorgeous git," John said, smiling into a smoldering kiss.

Then, it happened. John pushed into Sherlock, and the only sound Sherlock made for the first few minutes was John's name on repeat, said with varying degrees of desperation and want. As they neared their peeks of pleasure, Sherlock pulled John close, and the words flowed …

"You make me happy, John."

"You make me feel wanted."

"You make me feel safe."

"John … _my John_ …"

John vaguely thought he was the one who should be saying those things, considering those were the exact things Sherlock did for him. Instead, he thrust tenderly, one hand on the back of Sherlock's skull, the other gripping his hip. John should have said all those things and more, but he opted for, simply, "I love you," which made Sherlock come with a shout of expletives, John just behind.

They lay curled together, chests heaving. Sherlock nosed at John's neck and hair, arms wrapped around him. John kissed Sherlock's sweaty forehead.

"Did you mean it?" Sherlock's deep voice rumbled.

"Mean …"

"Do you love me, John?"

John turned onto his side so he could look into Sherlock's curious gaze. "I do. Yeah."

"But you didn't realize until you saw me with Lestrade."

John sighed. "Maybe. I don't know. I knew I, well, I was surprised when I saw you together. I knew you and I, we didn't have any kind of agreement, but I sort of felt like …" It was humiliating to say it. "I felt like you were mine."

The side of Sherlock's mouth turned up.

"I know it was never my right to think of you that way, but—"

"You're an idiot," Sherlock said.

John didn't respond, so Sherlock roughly pushed their hips together, making John's vision shake.

"John Watson, I've considered you _mine_ since you moved to Baker Street."

John giggled, couldn't help it. "Would have been nice to know. We could have been doing this for weeks."

"Oh, I don't know." Sherlock nibbled at John's jaw. "I kind of enjoyed seeing you angry."

John rolled them both over and pinned Sherlock's arms above his head. "I should punish you for that."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to see you try, doctor."

They spent the rest of the afternoon _punishing each other_ until John had to eventually concede defeat. His flat mate—now lover—was insatiable and seemingly had the sexual energy of a teen, which shouldn't have been shocking, considering Sherlock's overall energy levels.

Eventually, as the sun began to set, Sherlock fell asleep sprawled across John's chest. John, as he dozed, realized he was happy the consulting detective was now his … but he was even happier that he was Sherlock's.


End file.
